


the drowning song

by screechfox



Category: The Silt Verses (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Body Horror, Body Modification, Canon Divergence, Gen, POV First Person, Religion, Sirens, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 20:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30145293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: Faulkner is hallowed by the Trawlerman. Carpenter visits the saint that remains.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	the drowning song

**Author's Note:**

> body horror mermaids are apparently my brand

Sainthood is a strange thing. Some crave it, treating it as the goal of all their sacrifices, while others dance on the line of devotion, unwilling to lose themselves to their god so utterly.

I couldn’t have told you how Faulkner felt about the matter— but I doubt his feelings would have changed what happened. As with all gods, the Trawlerman’s saints are victims as often as they are volunteers. Perhaps Faulkner asked for that final hallowing, or perhaps he just drew the wrong prayer-mark on his chalkboard.

It doesn’t matter now. 

He’d been praying, as per usual, just audible through the thin walls that divided our separate rooms. I could hear the scratching of his chalkboard, the low murmur of his voice, and I was resigning myself to the fact that at least he’d be done soon enough, and then I could sleep.

His voice cut off earlier than I expected, with a sound that I initially processed as a cough. It was wrong, though — wet and guttural, like his lungs were filled with water. Then, silence.

It didn’t occur to me to be concerned; I was just grateful for the peace.

I had nearly managed to get to sleep, tossing and turning in the dark, when the singing started: two voices, intertwined in unison. One voice was pure and clear, welcoming as fresh water at the source, while the other was low and resonant, rattling the windows like the wind in a storm. The Mouth Devouring, and the Mouth Returning. I’d have to have been a fool not to recognise it.

I wasn’t the only one who opened my door to peer into the dank and dusty corridors of the motel. A motley collection of birdwatchers and travelling fishermen were looking around, confusion and curiosity plain on their faces. There was something else there too, now that I look back. They wanted to follow the Trawlerman’s song, even to their doom. 

When I knocked on Carpenter’s door, there was no answer. 

It wasn’t locked. I remember the frustration — how could he be so _foolish,_ leaving his door unlocked where any passing eavesdropper could take an interest and turn him into the police, dragging me along with him all the while. I was all ready to scowl and scold him.

I knew it was too late for any of that as soon as I opened the door. The Trawlerman’s hallowing is as unstoppable as the flood. 

The tiny bedsit sink was running in the corner of the room. Limpets pock-marked the dull white of the ceramic as dark, brackish water flowed from the tap, filling the air with the smell of dust and rain and rot. Crustacean legs and grasping tentacles reached up from the plughole, clawing at the edges of the metal in hope of escape.

Faulkner had been sitting by the window as he prayed, and now his head leant against it as he struggled to breathe. His prayer chalk was scattered to the ground in front of him, his hands twitching and spasming in the shifting remains of his lap.

He turned his head to look at me, and his expression was a pure and terrified exultation. 

"The drowning song," he gasped, eyes wide and wet with tears. "Sister Carpenter, I can hear the drowning song." Those were the last words he said to me, as the music rose in his throat and swallowed his voice.

I’d like to say that what I did next was well-reasoned, a strategic course of action. Honestly, though? I just panicked. 

The moonlit dusk was shining through Faulkner’s window, illuminating the deceptive stillness of the water in mercurial silver. When at last I threw him into the river, though, it was roiling like the worst kind of storm.

That night, I moved on from Marcel’s Crossing. I packed up all our things and climbed into the lonely van, and I didn’t stop driving until the sun was rising over the river.

When I walked to the edge of the water, Faulkner was there. Waiting for me.

What remains of Faulkner is almost, _almost,_ beautiful.

He’s been following me upriver for a week now, undeterred by the dams of the Saint Electric, or the way the river grows ever narrower. 

I don’t know why I’m carrying on. When I abandoned Marcel’s Crossing, I abandoned our holy mission, too. Oh, the church wouldn’t begrudge me for it, not openly, but the police will be on high alert after what happened that night. Any remnants of our faith living here will have scattered to the tides — or worse, been caught. There’s no _point_ in me carrying on.

I keep climbing, even as the car begins to splutter more often than not, and the money I have stretches thinner and thinner. I’m tired, but some purpose beyond myself pushes me forwards.

Whenever I look out to the river, there Faulkner is.

He looks at me with the sightless eyes of a creature from the deepest waters, grins at me with a full set of needle-like teeth as though in welcome— or else, in threat. If this Saint is an anglerfish, then Faulkner’s smiling, earnest face is the lure.

“What do you want?” I ask him, like always.

He doesn’t reply. A second, toothless mouth sits at the center of his throat, like a bloody gash scored through his vocal chords; all the better for mimicking the voices of the Trawlerman. 

A few notes of song escape through his lips, summoned from somewhere in his chest.

Even knowing better, I step forward, closer to the river’s edge.

All pretense of Faulkner’s humanity falls away beneath the water. His legs split apart into curling tentacles that shift and gasp at everything around them. They’re silver, almost iridescent, but the longer I look, the more I see fragments of bone white glistening under that slick, translucent skin.

“You want me to drown myself, is that it?”

His dual smiles fade, lips pressing together in unison. If I can recognise any human emotion on his face, I recognise pity. It’s like Mason’s pity, disappointed and disconnected — and yet so much more _earnest_ than Mason has ever been in the decades that I’ve known him.

He offers one hand, one nearly-human hand.

I should know better than to trust a saint, even one of yours, Trawlerman. But I suppose, for all his annoyances, Faulkner makes a decent lure.

His hand is cold and clammy where it touches mine, the webbed fins between his fingers spreading across my skin. His grip is light — I could pull away at any time, and I think he’d even let me. In so many years of worship, I’ve never come across a saint willing to be so gentle.

It reminds me of the old tales, the way Mason told them: the bride, and the choice that the Trawlerman gave her. It reminds me of Vaughn, and choosing the thing that eats you.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Faulkner, not sure precisely sure what I’m apologising for, or why. He just grins (welcome, or threat?) and shakes his head.

As he slowly pulls me into the river, Faulkner sings.


End file.
